


Soar (or, Five Times James Kirk Spread His Wings, and Two Times He Didn't)

by speccygeekgrrl



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 17:09:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8169505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speccygeekgrrl/pseuds/speccygeekgrrl
Summary: It wasn't unheard of for children conceived in space to develop mutations, especially when the conception occurred on old science vessels like the Kelvin had been. James Kirk is born with the wings of a hawk. Glimpses of a life on the wing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2009 Star Trek Kink Meme and for LJ user hamano_ayumi specifically, who made the request and drew [the lovely art second down on this page](http://community.livejournal.com/st_reboot/266757.html) to encourage someone to fill it. Well, it encouraged me! Division numbers are Jim's age, of course. fuck yeah, wingfic!

0.

It wasn't unheard of for children conceived in space to develop mutations, especially when the conception occurred on old science vessels like the Kelvin had been. There had always been more concern over Winona's pregnancy than others, not only because she was the First Officer's wife, but because there was something off about the ultrasounds, something the scans couldn't quite parse.

At the moment of birth, the doctor warned Winona, "I have to reach in to move the shoulder," and as he fit actions to words, he was shocked almost speechless when the shoulders that had been so resistant to emerge came out with appendages that weren't standard on homo sapiens. He passed the baby to the nurses, cut the umbilical cord, and said, "It's a boy."

George Kirk died with the words "I love you" on his lips, and astonishment in his eyes. His son, his little boy he never saw, was born with damp and down-fuzzed wings.

\--  
7.

"James Tiberius Kirk, you get down here this instant!" Hands on her hips, Winona yelled in frustration at her younger son, who had taken up a perch on the roof of their farmhouse.

"But Sam's picking on me, he pulled my feathers!" Jim complained, but he could see from his mother's firm expression that she didn't care what his reason was. "Aw, fine," he grumped, standing up and stretching out his wings before leaping off the building.

"Dammit, Jim, you know I hate when you do that," Winona complained as her son coasted down to land in front of her. "I worry about you, and then you pull stunts like that."

"Ma, you don't ever have to worry about me falling." His smile was an exact replica of George's, and Winona couldn't help the sadness that crept into her face.

"I'll always worry, Jimmy. You're my little boy."

\--  
11.

Everything about the boy was golden except for his sky-blue eyes-- really sky blue, the exact shade of the highest sky on the Iowa plains. He spent all his time outdoors and shirtless, until his hair and feathers were sunbleached and his skin burnished to a lightly freckled tan, until he looked like a sculpture come to life.

No sculpture ever started as much trouble as James Kirk. Behind that innocent face, devious plots spun; no child that smart and that fearless should be left bored. And god forbid you piss that child off, because the vengeance of a clever preteen is often out of proportion to the offense.

In this case, though, the vengeance was just right. Jim had put up with his stepfather's crap long enough; finding out that the man was going to sell his father's antique car was the last straw. That car was their birthright, his and Sam's, and he would rather see it wrecked than putting a stack of credits into Frank's account.

Tearing down the country road at a speed approaching triple digits, Jim's whole body was quivering with excitement, to the point where he could hear his feathers rustling. He punched up the radio, accidentally broke off the top of the convertible, and forgot about it instantly as the wind swept through hair and feathers and cut clean and sweet and free into his mouth.

The cop on his tail just urged Jim to speed up, faster and faster. This was his first and last ride, and he was pushing the car to its limits, no reason to hold back. He aimed toward the quarry, speeding off the edge and leaving the cop behind shocked.

Halfway down, golden wings snapped open and Jim pumped his way up through the air, laughing joyfully as he achieved the other side of the cliffs. He blew a jaunty kiss at the cop.

He was going to be in so much trouble. And it was entirely worth it.

\--  
18.

Yeah, he was a bored student, but he wasn't stupid. He wasn't allowed to finish high school a year early, so he loaded up with electives and study halls, came in late and left early and dicked around all year in an advanced computing course he breezed through, a phys ed (like he didn't get enough exercise, but the machines were great for targeting spots. his ass looked incredible.), and a music credit. Guitar, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Jim wasn't the playboy he was assumed to be. At eighteen, he still hadn't lost his virginity-- not to say he hadn't been around, but there was a difference between the various 'jobs you could get and actual real fucking. He really, really wanted to lose it to a girl in his guitar class, or maybe the teacher, he wasn't sure which one he had a better chance with, despite trying to figure them both out and tempt them both closer.

He kept his wings bound back-- it was a requirement, since technically they could constitute a hazard to other students, as if Jim were some skittish bird who'd go flapping around at the slightest surprise-- and they weren't exactly a secret, but very few people had actually seen them. And really, that was what it came down to when he figured out which person to go with.

Maryjane had always been fascinated by his wings ever since they were in grade school. Whenever he molted (which was worse than acne or a breaking voice, as far as teenage problems) she'd end up with a handful of feathers collected from the floor, from the dark brown downy ones by his skin to the still-golden flight feathers and all shades in between. Someone told him once that she had all the old feathers in a box, that she kept all of them, and that was kind of creepy. Close to the end of the year, though, when Jim thought he'd have to make a move or risk not getting any from either student or teacher, Maryjane came up behind him after class and flirtatiously threw her arms around his neck, thoroughly crushing his wings between them.

That took her off the list for sure, but Jim never expected Mr. Yolen to come over, handsome face set in an expression Jim rarely saw in anyone-- concern. "Are you all right, Jim?" the teacher asked, tenor voice mild, and passed his hand over the back of Jim's neck. No one had touched the spot between his wings since his mom bathed him, and the trail of fingertips through soft down made him shiver all through.

"I will be," he said, and looked up at the older man through his lashes. "Gotta rebind them, she pushed too hard."

"Do you mind if I watch?" Mr. Yolen's cheeks went red at Jim's arch of an eyebrow. "I'm a volunteer ornithologist, I work with endangered birds of prey, you know that."

"Oh. That makes sense, I guess." The teacher did like to talk about his projects while the class went through scales and warmups. "So you think I'm an eagle or something?"

"I've been wondering for a while how similar your wings are to a bird's." Neither one of them spoke as Jim pulled off his t-shirt and unhooked the flexible fabric straps that kept his wings folded and pulled against his body. As soon as he unfolded them, Mr. Yolen sucked in an audible breath. "Oh, my."

Well, with a reaction like that, Jim had to preen a little. He needed to stretch them anyhow, and the music room that could fit an entire orchestra was easily large enough for him to extend to his full wingspan; craning his neck around, he tried to smooth down the feathers that had been ruffled by Maryjane's enthusiastic hug. "What do you think?"

"You're no songbird, that's for certain." He could hear Mr. Yolen come closer, held still until the teacher was just behind him. "There are a few you can't reach. May I?"

"Go for it," Jim said, and held his breath until he felt deft hands on his left wing, one hand holding along the top while the other gently smoothed the feathers back into place. When he breathed out, it was on an unmistakable moan, and the teacher froze, hands still on the wing. "No, no, it's okay, Mr. Yolen," he rushed to assure the teacher, and covered the hand on the top of his wing with one of his own. "I didn't know it'd be so-- Nobody's touched them since I was young, it feels really good."

"You're sure it's not inappropriate," the teacher said dubiously, and Jim shook his head.

"You're an expert with wings, right? It's, uh, it's professional conc- _ohmygod_ ," Jim cut off with a gasp when guitar-calloused fingers stroked the length of his wing, "Oh my god, please don't stop doing that."

"How long have you been planning this, James? I've seen what you've been trying to do." Mr. Yolen didn't sound unhappy with the idea of being set up. Jim wriggled a little, braced his hands against a music stand to keep balance.

"I've wanted you since last year. Really didn't plan this though. Swear." Those wonderful hands switched to his right wing, neatening his feathers out and then stroking down, feeling out the texture. "Mr. Yolen..."

"My name is Neil," the teacher said, much closer than Jim had realized. Warm breath ruffled the soft feathers between his shoulderblades. "And you, Jim, you've got the wings of a hawk. Gorgeous." At the older man's mercy, Jim shuddered and panted and finally he cried out and fell to his knees. Neil leaned over him, all concern again. "Are you all right?"

The face that turned up to smile at him was dazed, slightly goofy, very pleased. "I'm fine. Kinda sticky and wet. I should get out of these pants, and I think your bedroom would be the best place to do that."

Screw Cupid. Jim had his own wings and his own ways of catching the eyes of lovers.

And Neil really did know a lot about wings.

\--  
22.

"Join Starfleet." The guy, Pike, he was nuts or something. Kirk mopped at his bloody face with a napkin, eyes narrowed.

"You must be real behind on your recruiting quota."

"I mean it, Jim." The younger man tuned him out, mostly, more concerned with the black eye he was going to have by morning and the sinking feeling that a couple of his pinions were bent. "--to fly?"

"Huh?" That got a little more of his attention. Pike set his jaw, looking at the potential in front of him, loathe to see it wasted.

"You like to fly? You think you're special, those things can only take you so far." Pike's lips quirked slightly. "You like being the genius criminal freak on the plains, fine. You want to find out who you can be, be surrounded by people who see James Kirk and not a featherhead, you want to stretch those wings in the air of another planet, the shuttle for new recruits leaves from the shipyard at 0600."

"Yeah, okay," Jim said, running a bloodstained hand through his hair. "Thanks for the pep talk." Pike was already gone before his retort made it out.

He felt like shit, half-drunk, beaten-up, confused. So Jim did what he always did when he needed to get his head straight-- he walked out, picked a random direction, and took to the sky.

It wasn't really a surprise when he found himself by the shipyard fence, looking in at the starship that had been under construction for years now. Even half-built, it was sleek, massive and awe-inspiring.

As he started walking toward the gates, Jim wondered if there'd be a large enough space for him to fly on a starship.

\--  
25.

The past day had been a chunk of hell aimed directly at the body of one James T. Kirk. Shot with an alien vaccine to which he was allergic, then shot up with half a dozen antidotes; pushed into a suit to do a space dive, fight Romulans on a fucking plasma drill, and saved from being a Jim omelet at the last second; nerve pinched at the end of a fistfight and abandoned on Planet Ice Cube; transported in what should have been impossible circumstances (and fuck that 'no physical changes' bullshit, he had been nauseous as hell after that); throttled and beat to hell by a really pissed off Vulcan, then even more fighting Romulans...

Yeah, he was just about beat, and considering he was hanging by his fingers to a really stupidly-designed platform on a Romulan ship (seriously, did these guys have no concept of crew safety?), it was a bad, bad time to have that thought.

The concept of a no-win situation extended to his own body, of course. There was no way in hell he'd die here just because he was fatigued. So he dodged the feet, made himself a moving target until he could reach up, grab the Romulan's ankle, and haul him over the edge. They both plummeted, and Jim closed his eyes and fiercely thought, _no, fuck no, this is not how I die, not here, not like this._

The flexible bonds around his wings snapped. The sturdy fabric of his shirt ripped down the back, and the sudden deployment of his wings was painful but in the way that meant he was still alive to feel pain, so it was all good.

Every single Romulan that saw him stopped still in awe. This puny human had somehow become an avenging angel, a force of ultimate power, unstoppable and terrifying. He swooped down to the room where Pike had been subjected to torture, where he still lay strapped down. It only took a moment to undo the bonds, and Jim wrapped his arms around Pike and cried into his communicator, "Enterprise, _now_!"

Three figures appeared on the transporter pad: Spock, unable to catch his balance from a seated position; Pike, broken in body but not in mind; and James Kirk, wings half-spread and trembling, refusing to let go of Pike except directly onto the floating stretcher already there with a medic team.

For a moment, McCoy lingered by the acting Captain, some undefinable look on his face. "No-win situations, huh? You're a fucking miracle, Jim." He squeezed his friend's shoulder gently before taking off to catch up with Pike's stretcher.

Scotty was still too occupied with gloating over his transporter skills to see the brief exchange between Jim and Spock as they caught their breath and their balance in the transporter room-- no more than a meaningful look, a grin on Jim's face that was echoed by a slight upturn of Spock's lips, and a low, "I told you we'd make it."

No time to clean up or tend to his wounds, Jim strode up to the main screen with Spock at his side and offered mercy to the mad Romulan still bare-chested and bloodied, his wings folded back but unhidden, the brightness of victory lighting up his golden features. When Nero refused, there was something besides insanity in his eyes-- terror, not of the singularity, but of the archangel of Starfleet, who had reduced all his might to nothing.

Jim could barely remember thinking in the aftermath, the very short time between firing on the Narada and ejecting the warp core to escape the singularity and riding the explosion after that. McCoy swore up and down that he didn't sedate Jim, that he'd been too busy, but it was Sickbay where Jim woke up hours later, stretched out on his stomach with his wings drooping down, feathers brushing the floor, well-cared-for and smooth.

\--  
28.

The problem with sleeping next to Jim, McCoy deduced, was that it was less like having a down comforter and more like being stuck in a feather-lined sauna. Well, that wasn't entirely Jim's fault; more than half of the blame could go to the Vulcan under the other wing.

Still, one problem against so many, many positive aspects hardly bore significance. Shifting closer, he brushed his nose against Jim's, kissed his lips gently. "Lemme up, featherhead, I'm on duty in half an hour."

"Uh-uh," Jim breathed, sneaking a hand up into McCoy's thick hair and holding him for a few more quick kisses. "Day off."

"No it isn't." He didn't resist, though, couldn't fight Jim's sleepy smile and the way his wing tightened just a little bit around him.

"Is too. Changed your schedule. Captain's prerogative."

"Perhaps you should explain your reasoning, Jim, as I noticed my shifts were also changed without my knowledge." Spock never sounded like he just woke up, but he could look as sweetly groggy as either of his lovers, and McCoy arched to look over Jim to catch just that expression.

"Come on, you don't know?" Lifting onto his elbows, Jim gave them both a pout. "It's been a year now since we came together like this."

"You gave us days off for our anniversary?" McCoy sounded incredulous. Spock merely raised an eyebrow and slid over on the bed, until Jim was supporting himself over both his partners, bright-eyed and enthusiastic.

"Damn right I did. We're not leaving this room for anything less than a red alert. I have plans."

"That phrase usually comes before some minor disaster," Spock said, amusement twinkling in his expressive eyes. McCoy laughed and kissed the edge of Spock's ear, then beamed up at Jim.

"Well then, let's not hold up the schedule."

Settling himself comfortably, half on McCoy's warm, solid body and half on Spock's lean muscle and heated skin, Jim pulled his wings tight around them and started Part One of his eleven-part plan. He fully expected to get sidetracked when one of them cheated-- going for Spock's fingers, or McCoy's thighs, or his own wings--and that was awesome, because they knew each other inside and out, fully, and that kind of cheating was one of the best parts about being in love.


End file.
